relationships

posted on March 13, 2018 by elizabeth

The Joys of Potty Training

This evening, my eldest son came into the kitchen looking forlorn. I asked him what was wrong and he said:

“Oscar threw a poo at me.”

And with that, I decided it was time to talk about potty training.

It should come as no surprise, to those who read this blog regularly, that this next parenting milestone has turned into a complete farce.

Some people reading this may feel that I should reconsider sharing the poo-flinging incident on the blog for fear it will come back to haunt him when he’s older. However, I feel that this could be a teachable moment. For example: should he irritate me in his teenage years I will be able to teach him that is not advisable by printing out this post and handing it out to his classmates.

I have spent months trying to convince him to start potty training, explaining that he needs to learn for when he starts nursery.

He didn’t care.

I’ve told him that he gets to wear super-cool pants.

He didn’t care.

I’ve told him he’ll get a treat, every time he uses the potty.

He thought about this for a little while and ultimately decided: he didn’t care.

The only person he will remotely be convinced by is his older brother. He wants to be just like him – to the point where he repeats his sentences straight after Oliver says them and pines after him at the window when he leaves for school.

Oliver has had some success with the treat angle (mostly because every time Oscar gets a treat I relent and give him one too). I have a feeling, by the end of this, I will have a kid out of nappies but two children bordering on the verge of Type-2 diabetes.

Back to this evening…

I went to check on the poopetrator and found him innocently sat on the potty, whilst the offending turd was sat on the living room floor. I asked him what happened and all I could gather from the guilty party was that: ‘Offer did it’.

‘Offer’ (Oliver) denies this and I’m inclined to believe the good one. Yes, I said it.

He didn’t even try to keep the pretence up for long, for fear of losing favour with his hero. Instead he cut his losses gave me a ‘sowee’ and went back to basically not giving a f**k about being in my good graces.

This child will be the death of me.

I was going to attempt to put together a handy guide on how to deal with potty training but, as you’ve probably gathered by now, I haven’t a damn clue.

If you want advice, ask Oliver – he seems to have life figured out at four-years-old.

posted on March 1, 2018 by elizabeth

How to Survive PMS: A Guide for Men

Scrolling through the tinternet, yesterday, I came across a discussion about period cramps and how the pain associated with them has been compared to that of a heart attack – no shit, Sherlock.

When I finished reading I realised that because I am truly outnumbered by males in this house – and the fact that two of those are children and one is a dog, who therefore couldn’t care less that I feel like I’m dying a slow and excruciating death – I decided it was about time that I put together a handy guide for those of you who are living with women and need help during this precarious time.

Why, yes! I am referring to my husband in this bracket, because apparently being together for 12 years isn’t long enough for him to pick up on my subtle clues that during this ‘special’ time I morph into an unpredictable bitch and he should probably back off for a few hours, or I may stab him repeatedly with a very blunt butter knife.

I make no apology for this completely natural event or what my overdramatic uterus may ‘make’ me do, I just want to be able to hand him this post when he seriously thinks it’s ‘hilarious’ to make jokes about anything PMS related.

How to calm down a completely fictitious woman who in no way resembles me during her period:

Step 1: Always have a hot water bottle to hand; you know like the one she asked for YESTERDAY and you didn’t bring when she was doubled over in heart-attack-level pain? Just a thought, this isn’t a direct example of what happened in my house yesterday. This is all based on a fictitious woman – let’s call her: Splizabeth.

Step 2: It may be safer for you to wear a few extra layers over the next couple of days in case she accidentally throws objects – like a child or a laptop – in frustration in your general direction at the lack of hot water bottle.

Step 3: Make sure there’s chocolate to hand. Unless your wife has recently gone vegan and the only alternative is (frankly disgusting) dark chocolate. By all means hand her the dark chocolate if you want, but be prepared for her rant back at you about how it tastes like the devil’s ass and how you’re a disgusting human being for even thinking she’d want to eat it.

Step 4: Leave the chocolate, I – sorry, I mean Splizabeth– will eventually eat it in desperation.

Step 5: Try not to breathe in her general direction because even knowing you’re alive and not in pain is a bit of an annoyance.

Step 6: Don’t let her watch horror movies, it genuinely may give her ideas. It might be safer just to take the remote off her when she starts sentences like: ‘Now, if I were to murder you I wouldn’t do it like that. Firstly I would…’

Step 7: Just take the kids and the dog and leave her alone for a few hours / days and let her get on with things. Be warned: at any given moment her unpredictable mood may mean she wants to be around her family because she loves you all. Don’t worry, it won’t last long. Probably only until someone breathes on her, so don’t fall for it. Just send a picture and look miserable. That will keep Splizabeth happy.

Now, you’re all set for next month and the month after that and so on because unfortunately my her uterus plans on being dramatic for a few more years before she meets the whole new hormonal shit-storm that is menopause.

Good luck!

posted on February 18, 2015 by elizabeth

Tackling Negative Thinking

Negative thinking is a nightmare.

It’s the route of where my depression comes from. In knowing this, you’d think I’d be able to identify the truth from fiction in the ‘bad’ thoughts that pop into my head. Unfortunately that’s not the case.

The good news is: now that I can properly understand that I’m not actually a raving loon, (it’s just my thinking needing a bit of an overhaul) I’m trying to do something about it.

Once I was finally fit enough after the events in ‘Coming Out of the Fog‘, I was referred to CBT (Cognitive Behavioral Therapy). It’s with this, I’m hoping I can finally rewire my brain.

I wasn’t sure what to expect when I went there. In my head it was going to be a run-of-the-mill counselling service. An hour of talking about my happy childhood and trying to figure out where I’d gone wrong. It wasn’t.

I was told we were’t going to be delving into my past (unless I wanted to – I didn’t), and we were going to look properly at how I handle information, stress in general or spirals into depression. Being pregnant when I started this, I was told it wouldn’t be helpful to go into deep analysis until after Bosco arrived. It’s because of this that after months of trying to figure out why I think the way I do, I’m still in limbo.

I still don’t have a notion why it’s easier for me to believe the negativity I’ve literally made up; why I’m constantly telling myself not to bother to try anything new because I would fail at it; why I place invisible barriers in front of me and those simply trying to help.

It’s frustrating for me, but it’s also frustrating for those around me.

I have been blessed with a lot of very understanding friends and family, and they regularly do their best to try and save me from my thoughts. The problem is: I can’t depend on this forever, I need to ‘fix’ this for myself or I’ll be stuck in an ongoing cycle of depression.

I need to be armed with tools so I can help myself. Although I’m reluctant to give myself any credit, I have to be pleased that I managed to get through a pregnancy unmedicated for depression and now, postpartum I’m still not taking any.

I should also be thankful that, despite my best efforts, I did not manage to completely destroy my relationship with my husband. I spent months successfully putting up a barrier between the two of us; isolating me away from his support and help because I didn’t believe that he loved the person I’d become. I didn’t believe a single compliment or reassuring word he had to say. How could I? I had spent that long believing that I didn’t deserve any type of love so I was punishing myself and blaming him for imagined distance.

It was a horrible time.

Then, one morning as I was driving to a hospital appointment, a song came on the radio: Billy Joel’s, Just The Way Your Are.

I’d always quite liked the song but hadn’t really bothered to listen to the words. I’ll not go into the cheesy brilliance of it, but it was basically every nice thing that Conor had been painstakingly trying to tell me FOR MONTHS. I don’t know why I hadn’t been able to hear and believe them from him but apparently as soon as Billy Joel popped up as a go-between it finally clicked.

Unsurprisingly I started to cry. It was an epiphany. Since then, when I’m starting to doubt our relationship or that I feel like I don’t deserve to hear that someone loves me, I listen to the song. It may sound silly, but it helps.

Another tool I’ve been armed with thanks to CBT is a simple question: ‘Where’s the evidence?’

It’s a powerful question that helps me cut through the make-believe I’ve created. For example: Why shouldn’t I try and do a website? Where’s the evidence that people will hate it, or me, for writing these little posts?

The next one is more of a mantra to remind myself that all is not what it seems in the darkest of times: ‘Just because you think it, doesn’t make it so.’

Even with music that breaks my train of thought, support from those around me and mantras, I still have a long way to go. Even when I think I’ve got it together I can have a bad night’s sleep and I’ll wake up feeling completely defeated, asking: ‘What’s the point?’

I’m trying. That’s all I can do, for now.

posted on February 16, 2015 by elizabeth

My Marriage Myths Debunked

Mondays are hard. They are made harder when you’re still nursing a hangover from an epic wedding. We had a fantastic time and as the newlyweds head off for their honeymoon aglow with happiness, I got thinking about my own marriage.

Don’t worry, I’m not about to burst their bubble about the horrendous reality that is marriage – I’ll let them find that out on their own.

Kidding, kidding…. mostly.

When I woke up on my first day as Mrs McGivern I wasn’t faced with a living nightmare and now, nearly four years on, I still don’t wake up in a cold sweat regretting the decision to spend the rest of my life with Conor – although he does have the ability to irritate me more than anyone on this earth.

We were engaged for three years and although we lived together I naively thought that our relationship would be drastically altered when we said ‘I do’. I would somehow magically be a bit more grown up, responsible and care about interest rates.

I’m hitting 30 and I couldn’t care less about interest rates. I prefer to live in blissful ignorance about most grown up decisions that we’re faced with and refuse to believe that I’ve aged passed 23.

Other than changing my surname, very little changed in the household. I didn’t suddenly enjoy ironing (I still refuse to do it) and the ceremony didn’t unearth some hidden desire to become the quintessential housewife.

And while we’re at it: it’s a real bloody pain changing your name. I’m still McCamley on the credit card and phone contract, the novelty of changing it over ran out before I got to them. They can stay that way for the foreseeable.

After the excitement of the wedding and honeymoon were over we were often asked: ‘Do you feel any differently?’ I wanted to serenely say ‘yes’ like we’d cracked some secret code and discovered the answer to a successful relationship but it would have been a lie.

Just by standing in front of our friends and family and saying some vows, we didn’t become the perfect version of ourselves. He still won’t hang up the bloody towel in the bathroom and I still don’t close doors when I come into the room.

Simply being married doesn’t make us solid, we as people do. Or at least it’s what we are trying to do on a daily basis. This last year has been a tough one on our relationship – mostly because of where my mental health has been – but we’re still muddling through with more good days than bad.

We are very different people to those two who walked down the aisle and we’re going to keep changing – hopefully for the better – but as long as we’re changing together I think we’ll be ok.

God, I’m so wise.

You’re welcome. *insert sarcastrophe here*

posted on February 12, 2015 by elizabeth

What I Really Want For Valentine’s Day

I love Valentine’s Day.

After nine years together it’s nice that we are forced to spend one day a year remembering that there was once a romantic side to our relationship.

I love the clichéd roses and chocolates (I’m currently eating mine as I type), I love seeing giant, over-priced teddies in every shop and my personal favourite: catching nervous looking men trying to nonchalantly head into Ann Summers before they’re spotted by someone they know.

However, romance in a long-term relationship is a world away from what’s pushed upon us on February 14th; and as much as I love the clichés there are a lot better things out there that would make this romantic holiday perfect.

After a little bit (ok, quite a lot) of thought I’ve put together what would make my day amazing:

Sleep: a bit of an obvious one for the mother of a new born, but it’s on the top of my list. How good would 12 hours of uninterrupted kip be? Just think about it for a moment. I can’t think about it too long or I may actually nod off. Let’s be honest, at this stage I’d settle for five hours. That would be pretty fantastic too.

To go to the bathroom solo: I remember a time when going to the bathroom was a private affair. You went in, you locked the door and you weren’t living in fear of a tiny person walking in for a bit of a chat. In this new house the door handles are annoyingly low which means nowhere is off limits to the Bear. Yesterday we had a nice ‘chat’ while I was in the shower. As much as I love my children, I’d really like to be able to bathe on my own.

To have egg cups: an extension of the low handles, the cupboard door handles are just as accessible. Bear has taken a shine to my surprisingly extensive collection of egg cups (apparently I’ve been subconsciously collecting these). Since he’s discovered them I’m finding them everywhere. It’s not the worst thing to find but he’s leaving them like a serial killer’s calling card which is beginning to frighten me. Today I found one on my bedside table and I could have sworn that it wasn’t there when I went to sleep…

To stand up and just leave the house: I’d really like to just decide that I need to go somewhere, pick up my keys and walk out of the house without it being a military operation involving at least two bags, a feeding schedule and a window of opportunity. It took over a hour to get out of the house this morning, and that was with my husband’s help – this doesn’t bode well for the rest of my maternity leave. I predict that we will all be lacking Vitamin D quite soon.

Someone to unpack the rest of the house: we are still drowning in boxes since the move and although I can’t stand the disorganisation, I don’t really seem to be doing anything practical about it, like actually unpacking. The mere thought of tackling the spare room scares the beejasus out of me. Best to just close the door and pretend there’s nothing in that room. Who needs a change of clothes anyway?

And that’s that. My idea of romance has drastically evolved since becoming a parent but I’ll still gladly accept the flowers and the heart-shaped card; but if someone could just volunteer to do the laundry that would be swell.

posted on September 20, 2013 by elizabeth

How He Met Your Mother

Life as we know it changed on the 15th May 2013 but the real story of how you came to be started a long time before that.
It all started on this date seven years ago to be precise.
No, I wasn’t pregnant for that long; (but to be fair that would explain the whale-like size) it was on this date that I first kissed your Dad.
We used to celebrate this as our anniversary but since the whole pesky wedding I’ve been cheated out of a present.

I’ll not gross you with the details. All you need to know is: we worked together, we were friends for two years then alcohol got involved and we became more than friends.
Does that sound dirtier than it was meant to? It’s not meant to be, but ask your therapist just in case *insert Parent of the Year Award here*
Moving swiftly on…

A lot has happened in those seven years.
We got engaged pretty quickly, lived in three different houses, got three cats (the exact number of felines you need to have for people to start thinking you’re mental), got married and had you.
It seemed like as good a time as ever to write a post to highlight some of the lovely qualities that make your Dad nice to have about:

The most important thing for you to know is your Dad loves you.
This love is unconditional and always will be.
As long as you play golf when you’re old enough to stand.
This is summed up by one sentence he uttered when you were two-days-old: “Sexuality preferences are irrelevant son, golf is non-negotiable.”
This might sound like ‘conditional’ terms but he assures me he’ll keep you around even if you don’t play.
I’m 85% sure he’s joking about this, at a push 78%.

He will always be there to catch you when you fall.
Your Dad likes to throw you about. Not in a rag-doll-type way, just enough to make me panic, but he will never drop you.
Now, just because one night in an attempt to be romantic he lifted me up and dropped me on my head doesn’t mean that this promise is any less valid.

He is an excellent nurse.
When you are sick he will be there to look after you until you’re all better.
I’ve known this for quite sometime because I have the immune system of a leper with a cold at the best of times.
I mean, just because when I had Bell’s Palsy in college and he decided to look it up on the internet to ‘reassure’ me and he accidentally looked up Cerebral Palsy instead effectively scaring the holy bejesus out of me doesn’t mean he won’t be just super at looking after you when you have the flu.

He’s very generous.
Your Dad will give you anything you want, within reason.
Throughout our friendship I would continually steal all his food at work until he had to start hiding his snacks and buy duplicate ones for me to find, kind of like a squirrel.
He also likes to float you over my head and let you sneeze in my mouth as I sleep so I can share those special germs with you. That’s super fun.

He is very, very funny.
He will make you laugh everyday if you let him – or else he won’t let you go to sleep.
Our friends especially love when they wake up to find the majority of their furniture has been turned upside down in the middle of the night.
Please don’t do this when you’re older, or take advice from him on how to be a good house guest.
To be fair, the furniture thing is annoying but you’ve got to admire the commitment.

These are just a few examples of why you shouldn’t be hard on your old man when you’re a moody teenager.
However if you’re planning on making your mother’s life miserable, think again – I’m a redhead and you don’t ever annoy a redhead.
Your Dad found that out very early on.

Love always,

Mum

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